Just Folks: "You'll be richer in the end than a prince, if you're a friend"

By Edgar Guest

Edgar Albert Guest was born in Birmingham, England on August 20th 1881.

In 1891 the family moved to the United States. Guest began his career at the Detroit Free Press as a copy boy and then moved on to reporting. The paper published his first poem

• Language: English
• Publisher: Portable Poetry
• Release date: Jan 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781839671753

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Just Folks by Edgar Guest

Edgar Albert Guest was born in Birmingham, England on August 20th 1881.

In 1891 the family moved to the United States.  Guest began his career at the Detroit Free Press as a copy boy and then moved on to reporting. The paper published his first poem on 11th December 1898.

Guest became a naturalized citizen in 1902. For 40 years, he was read widely and avidly throughout North America.  His intrinsically sentimental, optimistic poems brought him a large audience and following as well as the moniker of ‘People’s Poet’.

During his career he wrote an astounding 11,000 poems which were syndicated in some 300 newspapers and collected and published across more than 20 books.  Guest was also made Poet Laureate of Michigan, the only poet to have been awarded the title.

Such was the devotion of his readership that he was given a weekly Detroit radio show from 1931 until 1942. In 1951 NBC gave him his own TV series, ‘A Guest in Your Home’.  In between he hosted a thrice-weekly transcribed radio programme from January 15th, 1941, sponsored by Land O'Lakes Creameries. The singer Eddy Howard featured.

Guest was also a Freemason and a lifetime member of Ashlar Lodge No. 91. In honour of Guest's devotion to the Craft, community, and humanity in general, the Grand Lodge of Free and Accepted Masons of Michigan established the Edgar A. Guest Award for lodges to present to non-Masons within the community who demonstrated distinguished service to the community and their fellow man.

Edgar Albert Guest died on 5th August 1959, at the age of 77, in Detroit, Michigan. He was buried in Woodlawn Cemetery.

Index of Contents

Dedication

Just Folks

As It Goes

Hollyhocks

Sacrifice

Reward

See It Through

To the Humble

When Nellie's on the Job

The Old, Old Story

The Pup

Since Jessie Died

Hard Luck

Vacation Time

The Little Hurts

The Lanes of Memory

The Day of Days

A Fine Sight

Manhood's Greeting

Fishing Nooks

Show the Flag

Constant Beauty

A Patriotic Creed

Home

The Old-Time Family

The Job

Toys

The Mother on the Sidewalk

Memorial Day

Memory

The Stick-Together Families

Childless

The Crucible of Life

Unimportant Differences

The Fishing Outfit

Grown Up

Departed Friends

Laughter

The Scoffer

The Pathway of the Living

Lemon Pie

The Flag on the Farm

Heroes

The Mother's Question

The Blue Flannel Shirt

Grandpa

Pa Did It

The Real Successes

The Sorry Hostess

Yesterday

The Beauty Places

The Little Old Man

The Little Velvet Suit

The First Steps

Signs

The Family's Homely Man

When Mother Cooked With Wood

Midnight in the Pantry

The World Is Against Me

Bribed

The Home Builders

My Books and I

Success

Questions

Sausage

Friends

A Boost for Modern Methods

The Man to Be

The Summer Children

October

On Quitting

The Price of Riches

The Other Fellow

The Open Fire

Improvement

Send Her a Valentine

Bud

The Front Seat

There Are No Gods

The Auto

The Handy Man

The New Days

The Call

Songs of Rejoicing

Another Mouth to Feed

The Little Church

Sue's Got a Baby

The Lure That Failed

The Old-Fashioned Thanksgiving

The Old-Fashioned Pair

At Pelletier's

At Christmas

The Little Army

Who Is Your Boss?

The Truth About Envy

Living

On Being Broke

The Broken Drum

Mother's Excuses

As It Is

A Boy's Tribute

Up to the Ceiling

Thanksgiving

The Boy Soldier

My Land

Daddies

Loafing

When Father Played Baseball

About Boys

Curly Locks

Baby's Got a Tooth

Home and the Baby

The Fisherman

The March of Mortality

Growing Down

The Roads of Happiness

June

When Mother Sleeps

The Weaver

The Few

Real Swimming

The Love of the Game

Roses and Sunshine

Edgar Guest – A Concise Bibliography

Dedication

To the Little Mother and the Memory of the Big Father,

This Simple Book

Is Affectionately Dedicated

Just Folks

We're queer folks here.

We'll talk about the weather,

The good times we have had together,

The good times near,

The roses buddin', an' the bees

Once more upon their nectar sprees;

The scarlet fever scare, an' who

Came mighty near not pullin' through,

An' who had light attacks, an' all

The things that int'rest, big or small;

But here you'll never hear of sinnin'

Or any scandal that's beginnin'.

We've got too many other labors

To scatter tales that harm our neighbors.

We're strange folks here.

We're tryin' to be cheerful,

An' keep this home from gettin' tearful.

We hold it dear

Too dear for pettiness an' meanness,

An' nasty tales of men's uncleanness.

Here you shall come to joyous smilin',

Secure from hate an' harsh revilin';

Here, where the wood fire brightly blazes,

You'll hear from us our neighbor's praises.

Here, that they'll never grow to doubt us,

We keep our friends always about us;

An' here, though storms outside may pelter

Is refuge for our friends, an' shelter.

We've one rule here,

An' that is to be pleasant.

The folks we know are always present,

Or very near.

An' though they dwell in many places,

We think we're talkin' to their faces;

An' that keeps us from only seein'

The faults in any human bein',

An' checks our tongues when they'd go trailin'

Into the mire of mortal failin'.

Flaws aren't so big when folks are near you;

You don't talk mean when they can hear you.

An' so no scandal here is started,

Because from friends we're never parted.

As It Goes

In the corner she's left the mechanical toy,

On the chair is her Teddy Bear fine;

The things that I thought she would really enjoy

Don't seem to be quite in her line.

There's the flaxen-haired doll that is lovely to see

And really expensively dressed,

Left alone, all uncared for, and strange though it be,

She likes her rag dolly the best.

Oh, the money we spent and the plans that we laid

And the wonderful things that we bought!

There are toys that are cunningly, skillfully made,

But she seems not to give them a thought.

She was pleased when she woke and discovered them there,

But never a one of us guessed

That it isn't the splendor that makes a gift rare

She likes her rag dolly the best.

There's the flaxen-haired doll, with the real human hair,

There's the Teddy Bear left all alone,

There's the automobile at the foot of the stair,

And there is her toy telephone;

We thought they were fine, but a little child's eyes

Look deeper than ours to find charm,

And now she's in bed, and the rag dolly lies

Snuggled close on her little white arm.

Hollyhocks

Old-fashioned flowers! I love them all:

The morning-glories on the wall,

The pansies in their patch of shade,

The violets, stolen from a glade,

The bleeding hearts and columbine,

Have long been garden friends of mine;

But memory every summer flocks

About a clump of hollyhocks.

The mother loved them years ago;

Beside the fence they used to grow,

And though the garden changed each year

And certain blooms would disappear

To give their places in the ground

To something new that mother found,

Some pretty bloom or rosebush rare

The hollyhocks were always there.

It seems but yesterday to me

She led me down the yard to see

The first tall spires, with bloom aflame,

And taught me to pronounce their name.

And year by year I watched them grow,

The first flowers I had come to know.

And with the mother dear I'd yearn

To see the hollyhocks return.

The garden of my boyhood days

With hollyhocks was kept ablaze;

In all my recollections they

In friendly columns nod and sway;

And when to-day their blooms I see,

Always the mother smiles at me;

The mind's bright chambers, life unlocks

Each summer with the hollyhocks.

Sacrifice

When he has more than he can eat

To feed a stranger's not a feat.

When he has more than he can spend

It isn't hard to give or lend.

Who gives but what he'll never miss

Will never know what giving is.

He'll win few praises from his Lord

Who does but what he can afford.

The widow's mite to heaven went

Because real sacrifice it meant.

Reward

Don't want medals on my breast,

Don't want all the glory,

I'm not worrying greatly lest

The world won't hear my story.

A chance to dream beside a stream

Where fish